


Someday, Maybe

by chalantness



Series: part of the journey is the end [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 07:21:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18615856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chalantness/pseuds/chalantness
Summary: “Later.” She strokes her finger over the stubble along his jaw. “Later, we’ll have all the time in the world.”His smile is slow, almost reluctant, and she knows it’s because he likes to hear those words—likes to remember that it’strue—even though she’s using it as excuse to sayno.





	Someday, Maybe

**Author's Note:**

> There are NO EXPLICIT SPOILERS but there are VERY VAGUE REFERENCES. Honestly, you'd only know it was a spoiler while reading this if you've seen the movie, but I am taking no chances for people so I'm putting the warning anyway.
> 
> I have never written anything so quickly after watching the movie and it will never happen again, so here is this absolutely plotless piece of fluff and smut that resulted from me watching _Avengers: Endgame_ this morning.

She feels his presence a second before his arms are wrapping around her from behind, crossing over her stomach and drawing her flushed against his warm, broad chest. His lips brush over her shoulder, right next to the thin strap of her sundress—then again on her neck, lingering, before he lifts his head to whisper into her ear.

“You’re supposed to be socializing.”

A laugh bursts from her, loud and bright, and she feels his lips curve into a wide smile in response against the shell of her ear. “I’ve only been back here for a second.” Glancing at their reflection in the mirror, she meets his gaze and arches an eyebrow. “Considering the amount of frosting your son got all over me, everyone knew I’d need more than a few minutes to wash up,” she reminds, and Steve chuckles as he kisses her neck again, teasing his tongue against her skin as if the vanilla buttercream is still smeared all over the column of her throat and into her hair. Oh, of course _she’d_ been the one holding James when Tony decided that his godson should have the honor of feeding himself his first slice of birthday cake, and of course Steve had laughed at her along with everyone else before actually prying a giggling James and his messy little fingers away from his mom.

Considering only a little had gotten on James’s face and most of it had gotten all over Natasha, she isn’t surprised that Steve had been done wiping James off before she’d finished up in the guest bedroom.

“I would’ve helped you if you could actually wait one damn second,” he teases, mumbling the words into her pulse, drawing a hum as she tips her head back against his shoulder. Very faintly, she can hear the chatter and laughter just down the hall, pouring out of the Barton’s porch and into their wide yard. James’s first birthday hadn’t started out as this big celebration, but she supposes that, these days, none of them wastes a second to celebrate, and none of them skips out an excuse to get their family altogether.

She reaches up, pushes her fingers through his hair. “You mean, you would’ve licked it off of me.”

He nips her skin in response. “You say that like you disagree with the idea.”

Her eyelids fall half-closed, her smile widening as she stares up at the ceiling. “That’s not what I said,” she argues as he slides his lips down her neck, over the curve of her shoulder. “I just find it funny that you just berated me for not socializing when _your_ idea would’ve kept us locked in here for much, much longer.”

He pulls the strap of her dress aside, letting the front of her dress fall open, just a little, as he meets her gaze in the mirror again. “Yeah? And why would that be?”

She breathes out a laugh as his arms unwind from around her, hands sliding down her sides. He holds her stare in the reflection as he curves one over her hip, squeezing gently, and his other slides lower, lower, toying with the hem of her sundress. “Because your touches _always_ turn into something more,” she answers, her voice coming out just a little bit softer, a little bit breathier, as—as if to prove her point—his hand slips under her dress and up her thigh. His fingers are rough and calloused against her skin, yet his touch is smooth and gentle all the same, somehow, and warmth fans out through her veins as he teases and strokes. His grin is crooked and boyish, eyes glinting in mischief, and, _oh_ —

That smirk of his is _dangerous_.

The first time he’d looked at her like _that_ —after the war was over and the dust had settled, and the world once again began to pick up the pieces that had been leftover from the chaos—he’d pulled her into this very same guest bedroom, laid her across the mattress and barely let her up for air between deep, hungry kisses. Their bodies had only started to recover from the fight, and though his healing was further along than hers, she knew he still carried a bit of a limp in his walk, still got a twinge of pain in his shoulder. It was taking his body a little longer to bounce back from this one, which was to be expected, and it would take _weeks_ before all of her own scars and bruises would even start to fade.

Still, that night, they ignored the way their bodies ached down to their bones, and the way moving _just so_ brought on sharp bursts of pain.

They ignored their wounds, ignored the rest of the whole damn world that they had just saved, as relief and adrenaline and drowning, consuming _love_ coursed through their veins and they drank each other in to the very last drop.

His body had moved over hers, first frantic and urgent, then slow and teasing and torturous, and then he’d rolled them over and pulled her over him and things became throbbing and desperate all over again. They’d gone well through the night, pretending not to hear it when Clint called them for dinner, then Laura, and eventually their stomachs stopped growling, as if their bodies had succumbed to the fact that their hearts and their minds were too damn stubborn to even consider stopping. Not a little.

The beginnings of dawn had started to filter in from the part in the drapes when Steve had all but collapsed over her, both of them sated and sweaty, still wrapped around each other, clinging to each other as musk clung to the sheets and sleep finally pulled them under.

Clint had piled their plates up high with a smirk when they’d finally showered and stumbled into the kitchen around lunchtime, but other than a few questionably-subtle innuendos – and a bright blush on Laura’s cheeks as she smiled and shook her head at them, amused – the couple had let the matter slide under the radar.

There’s no way in hell everyone else would let them off as easily.

“Steve,” she whispers, her protest sounding reluctant to her own ears as his fingertips skim the waistband of her panties.

“We’ll be quick,” he promises.

She doesn’t mean to laugh, but, well. She _knows_ they can be quick. They’ve done it before.

“They’ll still notice,” she points out, turning her head and grasping his chin with her fingers, kissing him hard. He groans, tongue darting out to slip between her lips, and when she pulls away, he chases her kiss with a nip to her bottom lip. “ _Later._ ” She strokes her finger over the stubble along his jaw. “Later, we’ll have all the time in the world.”

His smile is slow, almost reluctant, and she knows it’s because he likes to hear those words—likes to remember that it’s _true_ —even though she’s using it as excuse to say _no_.

“Yeah?”

She hums, kissing him once, twice, three times, smiling against his lips. “James skipped his midday nap,” she reminds, drawing back just enough to watch his eyelashes flutter ever so slightly in realization. “And you know how much Laura loves sitting on the couch with him while he’s asleep, curled up with a nice, long paperback.”

His smile twitches into another smirk. “She won’t be in any rush to hand him over.” Natasha presses her lips together, nodding. Steve chuckles. “Alright. _Later_.”

And, as if on cue, there’s a knock on the bedroom door barely a moment later as Wanda voice comes from the other side. “Natasha? Are you still washing up in there?”

Steve unwinds himself from around her, drops another kiss on her lips—quick but sweet—and then takes her hand in his, threading their fingers together as they head out of the bathroom and across the guest bedroom. Steve pulls the door open to find Wanda on the other side and Bucky standing just behind her, a crooked grin stretched across his lips as Wanda blinks at them for a moment before breaking out into a giggle. “Told you she wouldn’t want our help,” Bucky quips, his metal hand gently squeezing the girl’s shoulder.

Wanda rubs her lips together, eyes twinkling. “Clint wanted us to grab you before they do the gifts. James is already ripping at the wrapping paper.”

Natasha rolls her eyes as she smiles, her chest fluttering as it always does when she thinks of her little guy. “He has his father’s impatience,” she quips, wiggling her hand from Steve’s so she can reach for Wanda, linking their arms together as they walk down the hallway.

“Yeah, we all know about his father’s impatience,” Bucky points out with a chuckle. “That’s how we got James in the first place.”

... ...

“ _God_. Look at that face. Are we sure he isn’t a clone?”

Laura laughs beside her husband as they stare down at James, who is fast asleep in the cradle of her arms, tucked in his new dinosaur blanket from Bruce—which matches the dinosaur theme of James’s birthday party, which had earned an amused roll of Steve’s eyes and a mutter of, “fucking fossils,” under his breath as he’d taken in the décor Lila and Cooper had taped all over the house. Natasha sips from her wine glass, her smile widening as her gaze lingers on James, his tiny mouth parted as he takes in steady, sleepy breaths, his ridiculously long lashes fanned against his cheeks. He knocked out almost as soon as Pepper passed him over to Laura with a kiss to his cheek, as if he’d known the last of his guests were gone. Natasha wouldn’t be surprised if that was even a little true. James is stubborn, and he’d much rather fight off sleep if it means being able to play.

“No. This nose is all Natasha,” Laura points out, dipping her head and brushing a gentle, feather-light kiss to the tip of James’s nose, as if in emphasis of her point.

Clint chuckles, presses his face into his wife’s hair and murmurs something low in her ear that makes her laugh softly with a shake of her head. She turns to whisper something in return, the two of them lost in their own little world, and, just up the staircase, she can hear the kids laughing it up in one of their rooms.

She smirks, drains the last of her wine and stands from the armchair. “I need a refill,” she says, more as a courtesy than anything else, considering Clint and Laura barely spare her a glance.

She sets her glass in the kitchen sink, feeling herself grin as she sees the dishes neatly stacked in the drying rack. Laura had insisted that Steve didn’t have to clean up, but of course he’d done so, anyway. Though in this moment, Natasha knows it has less to do with being considerate and more to do with wanting to give Laura a reason to lounge with James on the couch—distracted. Natasha glances back at the living room once more before slipping down the hallway to the guest bedroom, shutting the door softly behind her.

Then Steve is grabbing her back by her hips, drawing a breathy laugh from her throat as he spins her around and grasps her hands, guiding her back toward the bed.

“Ten more seconds and I was going to go out there and throw you over my shoulder,” he murmurs, smirking into their kiss before he’s slanting his mouth harder against hers, licking at the seam of her lips and groaning when she parts them for him.

“That wouldn’t have been discreet at all,” she manages to get out, breathless, as he nips at her bottom lip. He grasps the hem of her dress and pulls it up, drawing back just long enough to tug it off and over her head, tossing it to the floor, and then her calves are hitting the edge of the mattress and her body is falling back against the bed. He braces a knee between her legs, one hand by her head as he peers down at her, eyes trailing down her body like a palpable touch over every curve, every inch of skin. She doesn’t know how something as simple as his stare can feel so intimate. How it can feel both innocent and reverent, yet downright _dirty_ at the same time, but she loves it. _God_ , she loves it.

“How,” he breathes, dropping his other hand over her hip, thumb stroking the scar there before giving her a gentle squeeze. “How did I get so lucky?”

“Pretty sure that’s my line,” she murmurs as she cups her hands over the back of his neck, dragging his lips back down in a kiss, bringing his body hard and hot against hers.

He takes his time kissing her, settling his hips between her legs, winding her body around his. Every part of her feels heated, feels like it’s wound tightly, throbbing, yet she doesn’t want to break from this trance they’ve found themselves in. She wants to savor the way his mouth slants over hers, their tongues pressed together, drawing soft sighs and light, barely-there whimpers from the back of her throat. She wants to savor the way she can feel his kiss in every drop of blood in her veins, in every beat of her heart.

Until she feels his muscles quiver under her touch, her hands smoothing circles over his back, his heart tripping in his chest before picking up into a rapid thrum.

Until his kiss turns desperate, with a tiny, tiny touch of anxiety, and she already knows the words he wants to say as he whispers them against her lips.

“Is this real?” He yanks his mouth from hers, dips his head and sucks at the column of her throat, grinding his hips into hers. She moans softly, arches her spine off of the mattress as best as she can with how heavy he is over her. “Please tell me this is real.”

“Doesn’t this feel real to you?” she asks, pulling his hand from her hip and guiding it between them, over her racing heart. “Don’t I feel real?”

“You feel too fucking perfect to tell,” he groans into her mouth, his thumb stroking at the tiny bow of her lace bra between the dip of her breasts. She slips her hand low, lower, cupping where he’s deliciously hard, her lips twitching into a grin as he practically growls into her neck. “ _Nat_.”

“I bet that feels real,” she whispers, squeezing gently, until he’s yanking her hand away and lifting himself up and onto his knees, undoing the front of his jeans. She hooks her fingers through his belt loops and lifts herself up, kissing the hard lines of his chest, feeling his muscles quiver and flex under her lips as she trails over contours and dips, down the sloped curve of his hips—and then he’s twining his fingers in her hair and gently drawing her away, letting her fall back against the mattress again with a breathless laugh.

“ _Later_ ,” he says, lip tugging at one corner. “Right now, I need to be inside of you.”

“Promises, promises,” she retorts, grinning, and then she’s hooking her thumbs under the waistband of her panties and shimmying them down her hips. He arches an eyebrow, smirking, and she slowly pulls them off from around her ankles and tosses them aside. If she left it up to him, he’d rip her out of all her pretty lingerie.

Then he works his jeans off, dips his head and sucks at her nipple through the thin lace, and her spine arches off of the bed as she moans. He cups her other breast, tweaks at her other nipple with his fingers. The hard length of him is pressing against her wet folds, nothing but his boxers between them, and every roll of his hips makes the heat coil at the base of her spine. She twists her fingers into his hair and yanks him up, brings his face to hers, his lips barely an inch away, and he smiles as he slants his mouth over hers.

She slides her hands down his back, grasps at his boxers and tugs them down, and then her hand is curling around him, stroking, thumb circling over the wetness at his tip as she draws him to her entrance. He groans into her mouth, reaching between them, splaying a hand against the inside of her thigh and holding her open _just so_ as he sinks in with one, swift stroke, down to the hilt, pushing the air from her lungs as her hands gets trapped between their hips, her fingers brushing against her little bundle of nerves.

Nothing ever compares to that first push, to the way he always stretches her out, the way he always fills her deep, _so fucking deep_.

He pulls his hips back, almost all the way out, then pushes back in, licking into her parted mouth as he does it again, and again, and again, quickly finding that slow, teasing rhythm that he loves so much. That drives her crazy and makes her fall apart way too fast.

Then he gets out, “Touch yourself,” through a tight throat, the command gruff but stern all the same.

Her eyelashes flutter. “But—” She’ll get too close. She’ll come too fast.

He smiles that perfect, gentlemanly smile of his, his eyes twinkling, reading her every thought. “That’s the idea.” He nips at her lip. “Don’t worry, love. I could do this all night.”

Her laugh gets muffled between their kiss as she complies, spreading herself open with her fingers, stroking herself in tight circles—going slow at first, the way he always does. Teasing, torturous, letting her pleasure build along with the pace of his thrusts. Her sex tingles, twitching and tightening around him with every stroke of her finger, and though he’s not moving nearly fast enough to consider it _fucking_ , she can feel the wisps of her orgasm. Just the thick length of him inside of her, rubbing against her as she strokes her little bundle of nerves is driving her _crazy_ , and she doesn’t know how long she lasts. It feels like forever, but it also feels like seconds, but then she’s right there, _right there_.

He pulls away just in time for a cry to leave her lips as she falls over the edge, delicious, her body squirming against the mattress.

Then he curves a hand under her ass, squeezing, and starts thrusting even harder, faster, and the sudden change in pace would be enough to make her dizzy if her head wasn’t already spinning.

She moans louder, fingers fumbling for the sheet, twisting it, her head turning to press her cheek against her pillow as she rides out the waves of her high. He wrings every ounce of pleasure from her, unrelenting, not letting her body fall back down from that blissful peak as his body grows taut, muscles tightening, hips quickening.

She feels as if she’s suspended in her high. She feels weightless, _boneless_ , somehow hazy with pleasure yet sharp with awareness, feeling every little brush of his skin against hers.

When she comes for a second time, he’s right there with her, hips stuttering until he’s pulling her flushed against him, pressed against her as close as physically possible as she digs her nails into the muscles of his back. Her sex flutters around him, his warmth spilling into her, and his breaths are hot and sharp against her shoulder with his face pressed into her hair. His heart is thrumming in his chest, racing against hers as the both of them try to catch their breaths, her lips pulling into a smile as her eyelashes flutter closed.

Slowly, a few long moments later, she feels his hips start to draw back, feels him start to pull out, but she slides her hands to his hips and digs her nails in, making him pause.

He lifts his head, a sated, sleepy sort of smile on his lips as he peers down at her. His eyes flick down to her lips when she rubs them together, then back up to meet her gaze, one eyebrow arched.

She tightens her legs around him, tucks herself closer to his chest. “Just a little longer,” she whispers, kissing the line of his jaw. “I like how it feels.”

His eyes glint in amusement, and adoration, and a little bit of awe, too. Because he always seems to look at her like that. Like he can’t believe she’s real, and _his_.

“You like feeling stretched out and sore?” he asks, the crude visual of his words making her heart skip like some fucking schoolgirl. She gnaws on her bottom lip, trying and failing to keep her smile from widening. “You like feeling my sweat against yours? Like feeling where we came together?”

“It makes it feel real,” she says, barely above a whisper, but his expression softens because he hears her. Hears all the things she isn’t saying.

Hears the relief and the promise and the hope. She’s so full of hope these days and that’s because of him, because of their little miracle fast asleep in his godmother’s arms outside. Her two boys. Her whole world.

“Yeah, it does,” he breathes out, and then he’s kissing her, soft and slow and sweet, down to her very soul, and she’s never felt anything as real as this moment.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts:
> 
> Romanogers reunion with Clint's family and staying the night at Clint's house. So much fluff or possible smut? – fluffy-yummy
> 
> James first birthday - fluff in the beginning then smut cause you know you have to celebrate the babies by practicing to make a new one – anon
> 
> Hey after seeing that intense new endgame trailer, can we get some some cute family fluffy steve natasha and baby james content? – anon


End file.
